


in the wake of the apocalypse

by beneathyourbravery



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Spies & Secret Agents, Unreliable Narrator, Xu Ming Hao | The8-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26215342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beneathyourbravery/pseuds/beneathyourbravery
Summary: ‘The best of us’, his people call him in Greece, and Minghao basks in the glory; bottle of wine held tightly in his hand, in a safe location that feels nothing like it.In Minghao’s mind, Mingyu’s hands touch the small of his back; tender, because he cares, and he’d be proud even if Minghao would hate him for it.
Relationships: Kim Mingyu/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Comments: 26
Kudos: 54
Collections: The Gyuhao Exhibit 2020: Snap Shoot





	in the wake of the apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> this work is my contribution to the gyuhao snap shot fest (big shout out to the mods!), inspired by the photo prompt [#27](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1uH1JGKd3QRJiC0eG37C6X3tAPeFWjHUW/view?usp=sharing). i hope that the prompter enjoys the story i made out of it!
> 
> a couple things:  
> \- i tagged this fic as including graphic depictions of violence even though they are not the central topic of this story nor really abundant in it, and the few that exist can definitely be skipped over if it’s not your thing!!  
> \- there’s a warning i did not include in the tags because it would give away a part of the plot i believe is better not to know before diving into this story, as the fun is in the possibility of plot twists happening at some point and it’s not something really /major/ i believed should be told beforehand! but, if you wanna know before reading anyways, check the note at the end for the additional warning <3

_And those who expected lightning and thunder / are disappointed._

_And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps / do not believe it is happening now._

_As long as the sun and the moon are above,_

_As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,_

_As long as rosy infants are born_

_No one believes it is happening now._

A Song on the End of the World — Czeslaw Milosz

Mingyu is waiting for him right where they had agreed to meet — degrees, minutes and seconds on point, the North at his back, the most loyal kind of shield. He looks exactly how Minghao remembers him to, tall and broad and bright like the Sun around which he will always orbit. 

Minghao wishes he too could look as Mingyu remembers. He takes shame in the way his arm hangs limp against his side, the skin of his face dull and devoid of color, open wound on his thigh bleeding again and dampening the already wet fabric of his jeans. 

Still, Mingyu looks at him as if he had just hung the Moon on the sky — and God, would Minghao do it, would he find his way to space if that’s what Mingyu wanted; would he kill every man on Earth, too, if only it made Mingyu look this happy again.

Mingyu rushes to his encounter, strong arms wrapping around Minghao’s middle and kind eyes dripping with concern. When Minghao kisses him, his lips taste of heaven on his tongue; the prayer of an unbeliever, salvation for the damned.

▫▪▫

Darkness drapes itself over Shanghai’s night sky like a blanket, a refuge for the outcasts, a safety wall for those whose businesses fall outside the ever doubtious legality of the system. 

Like this, with no one to see but the crescent shade of the Moon, he can be anyone he wants to be, the past swept under a rug and tucked away in the furthest of drawers, because it doesn’t matter, _it doesn’t matter_. The only thing that counts, the thin thread that is still tying him to life after all these years, is what lives inside his head — folders upon folders of intel so valious that many would kill just to have a quick look at everything he knows, a key to every door one could ever dream to open. 

Minghao knows too many things, many more than he will ever tell anyone. It’s his job, in the end, to be a storage unit for the people who run higher than he does, the ones who rule over him and decide where he goes, what he does, how, _if_ he returns. His head is full of names and numbers and codes that used to mean nothing to him but were everything to those people. 

Minghao was eight when they found him on the streets of Anshan — malnourished body weak under the harsh bite of winter, dark eye bags and darker bruises littering his skin. They took him under their wing just like that, a defenceless kid they trained into the most ruthless kind of agent, human nature taken away from him until he became what he is today; an asset, a weapon, plenty of resources stored inside a single unit, and no weaknesses, red never staining his ledger.

 _You owe us your life_ , they would say, and Minghao would obey and not be afraid of life nor death, because he doesn’t care for the world and he doesn’t care for anyone.

(He had done so only once, cared so deeply that it had felt quite like the home he’d never had. But there’d been a corpse, then, the piercing sound of a bloody scream reverberating across walls, and he’d smashed the recorder reproducing the noises against the ground and stomped on it until it was nothing more than wires and plastic. 

Even after that, the sounds still haunt him every time he closes his eyes. 

A gun is shot, a bone is cracked — life is nothing more than this.)

In this cold, quiet night, the shadows and the wind his closest companions, he is Xu Minghao and Seo Myungho. He is _The8_ , codename at work, identity worn on his head like a crown, and he is anyone he needs to be because humanity is not something people like him are allowed — he’s not in control, _obey or you’ll end up worse than dead_ , there’s nothing else to be had.

“You will lose yourself, living so many lives at once,” Sicheng tells him from where he’s perched on this roof beside him, clad in black just like Minghao is, sniper rifle resting heavy on his shoulder. “Find a map to yourself, if you don’t want to disappear.”

▫▪▫

Mingyu is his map and his anchor, _XMH_ tattooed high on his thigh, a proof of his existence, a key to his home. On Minghao’s ribs, small enough not to attract unwanted attention, _KMG_ , his only Achilles heel. 

Minghao keeps Kim Mingyu a secret, an outlier among the thousands which live engraved into the waves of his brain, a promise he made to himself a long time ago — he will never tell, even if it costs him his life, even if it costs him everything, because he’s got nothing if he doesn’t have Mingyu. 

He makes it his mission to always keep Mingyu safe; saves for himself any piece of information he could ever find useful enough to save him from any kind of danger, and makes sure nobody ever finds out about him, as difficult as it is, treason a heavy weight on his damaged heart — _you owe us your life_ , they would always say, but Minghao finds purpose under another man’s touch, and it’s his, it’s all his. 

Here, on this little island lost in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, they have nothing to worry about. Minghao killed the man who shipped him here, and will too kill the one designed to take him back to the mainland after it’s all done. 

Still, as he presses Mingyu to the wall of this little, almost teared down bungalow he found for them this time, Minghao’s dry, cracked lips exploring every inch of his honey skin, there are coordinates and government officials’ names and codes and _secrets_ on the back of his mind — just in case, a robot programmed to act and think before feeling, not human until Mingyu put his hands on his heart and taught him life and colors and tender touches where before there had only been pain.

▫▪▫

Seoul has always had the taste of something familiar against the back of Minghao’s tongue. 

South Korean intel is sweet like a candy to Minghao’s organization, alluring like a siren’s song, captivating like emerald eyes glowing green in the dark. Sin is what keeps them alive — there’s always a greed for more, lust for the unknown, gluttony for control —, and so it’s not the first time he’s been sent here; fine velvet suit ironed into perfection against his slender body, foreign language fluid like a cascade falling from his mouth. 

Minghao holds a flute of champagne in between the fingers of his left hand, apparently disinterested eyes scanning the faces of every single person walking around the diaphan space of the gallery, brain ticking off the names from the list of attendees he memorised during his plane trip from Wuhan. The reception is rolling smoothly, so far, newly purchased paintings displayed on pristine white walls, and people from all different backgrounds carefully selected to be here tonight; first-viewers of the impressive collection a private investor has pulled together, millions hanging on concrete like there’s not a price to everything in this world.

Minghao would like to say he’s here for the art — abstract collages and impossible photographies exposed behind glass like there are no secrets behind them, trafficking and influences and government involvement behind every big thing happening in places like this; like it’s fair for humans to simply appreciate them without looking beyond what’s told —, but he can’t quite remember the last time he felt human enough for his eyes not to search for the slightest sign of doubtious movement in his surroundings; the metal of his gun warming up against the skin of his abdomen, the neverending tick-tack of a clock in the back of his mind telling him it’s only a matter of time until everything goes down. His ears always alert, picking up every word being exchanged close enough to where he’s standing, brain engraved with every syllable he makes out of posh-accented mouths.

“This one is such a nice piece, don’t you think?” a voice says, off to his right, and Minghao calculates his every movement on exact decimals before he turns to face his new company.

The man is not yet in his thirties, long legs and built body towering over Minghao; black suit a bit tight on his broad shoulders, bowtie just slightly tilted off to his left; crooked smile adorned by pointy canines digging softly into plump lips, eyes warm and kind in a place where there’s no room for compassion. 

Minghao’s mind knows what his rehearsed smile doesn’t tell — this man should not be here, for he’s not on the list, and it can only mean trouble. 

“It certainly is,” he responds instead, raising his flute to his lips to take a long sip of his steadily warming drink. “What’s your name? I don’t think I recognise you from anywhere.”

The tall man blushes, then, high on his tanned cheeks, and Minghao finds it strangely endearing; not enough for him to lower his guard, yet, but calming enough.

“I, uh. I wasn’t on the list until last moment,” the stranger explains clumsily, a lisp dragging at the end of certain syllables, something Minghao will be able to recognise anywhere from now on. “I’m not, you know. Important,” the laugh he lets out is a self-depreciating sound, accompanied by a shake of his head. “A friend was in charge of renting the space, and I managed to convince him to move some threads so I could attend… I really wanted to see this collection,” Mingyu says, eyes lingering on Minghao’s lips for a second.

 _Boo Seungkwan_ , Minghao’s brain supplies, was the renter of the gallery; he’s 26, from Jeju, Journalism graduate, not too successful in his field. It makes sense, and for a moment he laments the way this innocent guy is going to be dragged into the chaos about to break havoc tonight. 

He laments, and then he remembers he’s not supposed to care, but Mingyu is gently dusting off an invisible mot of dust from his shoulder and it makes his stomach flutter — and Minghao is not human because they’ve made of him something else, but he knows desire, and it burns hot inside his veins.

A distraction was never this enchanting.

What gives? Minghao pushing Kim Mingyu behind his body mere moments before the shots are fired, guiding him out to the street before the tremendous uproar of guns going off in the insonorized space breaks through; red blood staining white and dripping off clear glass, needy lips chasing his skin as they wait for a cab.

What gives? Minghao excusing himself to go back inside for a moment, the promise of return easy on his tongue; fingers quick as he finishes the sloppy job the Korean gang members in the reception had done, slicing the throat of one of them just so he’ll be able to cover for Mingyu before his boss; no dead ends left alive inside the building when he walks back to Mingyu, shotgun hidden again in plain sight.

What gives? Mingyu’s hands hot on his skin, his lips soft against his ear, — unbeknownst of who Minghao his, of what just happened in the gallery —, and Minghao pressing Mingyu to the mattress of his hotel bed, human for one night, desire rolling off his shoulders in waves; and Kim Mingyu reminding him of what it’s like to feel, for once, like there’s no price to everything.

What gives? 

▫▪▫

Minghao doesn’t know what was it about Kim Mingyu that made him feel human for the first time in years — if it was his tender touches and slow kisses, or the way he called out his name from underneath him, like Minghao was worthy of admiration, like there wasn’t blood dripping from his fingertips; if it was the way he looked at Minghao when he came out of the shower, sleep still tugging at his eyelids, a strong lisp on his voice as he said _please let’s meet again_ , like Minghao could be caught, like there was room for him to choose. 

And maybe, just maybe, that’d been it: Mingyu had believed him an equal and not a whirring machine, and in the back of Minghao’s mind, he could hear Junhui’s voice, clear as a spring day, telling him that _you deserve it, Hao, you’re human, don’t let them win, don’t let them take you away_. 

He needed a map to himself and he needed an anchor to keep him sane, and Mingyu had cradled him into his strong arms and offered to take him out for breakfast, and Minghao should have already been on his way back to Beijing, but it had felt too sweet to reject.

He could wait a few more days to die.

▫▪▫

Mingyu’s hands are careful when they unclasp Minghao’s vest from where it’s wrapped tight around his chest; a bulletproof armor, shielding his heart away from everything but Mingyu. The polaroid picture he took of Mingyu last time they met — broad body all clad in black leather preparing to mount a motorbike, identity hidden under a helmet, green forest awaiting to swallow him alive as if it would never return him again — falls to the ground with the motion, and Minghao aches to bend down and retrieve it just so he can keep it as close as he always does.

The wound on his thigh screams at him, pain tasting of metal against the roof of his mouth, and Minghao pushes it away because nothing is allowed to get in between them now, after months apart, countries and planes and bikes and boats and passports burning next to gravel roads the only trace of their love. Mingyu sees right through him, caring as ever, and he’s leaving to get the first aid kit he’s used to carrying around now before Minghao has the chance to complain. 

He would like, Minghao thinks sometimes, to know how it happened; the exact moment in which Mingyu tore down his walls, years of training escaping through the pads of his fingers, heart kicking into motion again at the sense of finding safety in foreign arms. 

Hong Kong might have been the place, Minghao guesses while Mingyu cleans blood off his thigh and sews closed the dark gash, where he gave into the instincts he had for long believed dead. Mingyu had texted him, on one of the few safe lines Minghao still saved for himself — the one he’d given him on that night in Seoul, after investigating Mingyu on his database while he slept, no intel on him beyond the basic knowledge they had of every Korean citizen; age, name, date of birth, occupation; all of it, Minghao had deleted from the system, no traces of his doing, something just his to keep —, telling him he was in the city on a trip with friends, _was he perhaps close, could they maybe meet?_

Minghao had been in Yantian, just finished reporting to his superiors about a drug deal across the border, and the offer sounded so sweet that he hadn’t been able to resist. Mingyu took him out for dinner, and then he took him back to his hotel room, eager hands and desperate lips searching for answers on every crevice of Minghao’s skin. 

“Where are all these scars from?” he’d asked sweetly, like the world didn’t depend on it, like Minghao’s shoulders weren’t heavy with guilt.

“I’d have to kill you if I told you,” Minghao said, his cock deep inside Mingyu’s heat, body aching for release. “And I’d hate myself for it.”

Mingyu had keened, then, hands tight on Minghao’s waist, short nails digging crescent moons over his jutting hip bones.

“Oh Minghao,” he’d cried out, name like a prayer on his mouth, unafraid of everything, “give an adventure,” he breathed out, “for I’d love to be on one with you.”

And it’d been cataclysmic, an echo resonating inside Minghao’s ribcage — the thought of something being his and his only, of Mingyu giving himself away under his hands —, and seed spilling inside his body like a claiming, _I’m as yours as you are mine, we’re just one right now_.

Minghao had told him afterwards, of being an agent of a kind he could just not explain, and Mingyu had trusted him in his post-orgasmic haze with his life and Minghao had never felt this alive before. 

“I’ll keep you safe, Mingyu-ah,” he’d whispered against his chest, right over where his heart beat with the force of a hurricane. “I will never let anything happen to you.”

There is no greater fate; there’s no greater God. 

Mingyu returns with clean gauze to patch him up, and Minghao thinks that yeah, it was Hong Kong that changed everything. 

▫▪▫

Wen Junhui had once been, in a life far away from this one, everything to Minghao. 

He’d been seventeen, back then, ruthless in his job — learning intel on every single affair of the organisation’s interest by morning, getting objectives killed in handfuls by night —, a sort of programmed robot with no feelings and no life outside the one he’d been given by the people who’d given him shelter when he was nothing more than a skinny dying kid. 

Minghao had no feelings, had no conscience, had no heart, but one night there’d been a blade going through his abdomen, past the layer of black lycra tight around his skin, and he’d believed it to be the end, after everything. But the agent who accompanied him on that one mission had been quick — shot dead everyone in sight if it meant getting to Minghao, and took him back to their base so he could be patched up, a car in a mechanics’ garage.

Junhui was still by Minghao’s side when he woke up, hours later, stitches adorning a nasty-looking wound just off to the right of his liver. 

“I’m glad you’re okay, kid,” he’d said, and Minghao had felt furious.

“I’m not a kid,” he spat, fists clenching by his sides, because he never got to be one in the first place, when it would have counted. “Who cares what happens to me, it’s the mission that’s important.”

And Junhui could have, Minghao reckons now, left him right there again; no feelings and no life and no heart to beat inside his chest. But he’d stayed, and he took Minghao under his wing — taught him everything he knew, and trusted him with something more valious than his life, for they both knew theirs had no greater value anyways. Junhui gave him his knowledge, of every network he knew, on every single person they’d ever crossed paths with, and he’d made Minghao feel powerful under the shackles that still bound him.

“Maybe one day we’ll get to have a life,” Junhui used to say, when it was just them — microphones turned off, no radio in sight to listen to their conversation. “I’d like to live at the beach.”

Minghao does not know what living feels like, but Junhui is the closest thing to family he’s ever had, and so he agrees. 

He still calls Junhui’s deadline, sometimes — some nights, when the horror gets too much, when he needs a hand to hold and Mingyu’s not there to pin him down and make him _breathe_ , when he needs a brother more than he needs a lover —, and his voice doesn’t change no matter how many years go by or how many times he calls. _“It’s Wen Junhui! I’m probably busy right now, so don’t bother to call again — if it’s important, I’ll know! Bye!”_

Minghao always calls again, just to hear the giggle underneath the wording, to reminiscence the exact moment in which Junhui recorded his voicemail; how bright his smile had been, and how Minghao had been naive enough to put all his trust on a man with secrets as dark as his own, a mirror to himself so true that when Junhui had been shot dead, Minghao felt the bullets going through his chest just the same. 

They never show him Junhui’s corpse, don’t give him anything except the recorder he smashes to debris with his screams of agony playing in the background, and Minghao doesn’t ask to see it — he wants to remember him alive, full of mischief, the only person who’s ever cared for him.

He wonders if he’s repeating his mistake with Mingyu, trusting a man, leaving himself vulnerable one more time. But it’s been a long time now since he stopped caring, and so he doesn’t stop.

 _You don’t have a say_ , they’d always tell, _don’t question us or you’ll end up dead_. He’s not sure what he would have chosen now, given the chance.

▫▪▫

Mingyu feeds him with painkillers before he takes him to the bed, the interior of the bungalow slowly warming up to their presence where it’d been cold before. His lips taste of blank lipbalm, and his calloused hands make Minghao forget for a moment who he is, how he got here, everything that’s at stake.

Mingyu places a hand over Minghao’s chest, big enough to cover a good part of his ribcage, but he doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t tear his heart out and rips it to shreds. Mingyu is soft and kind, and he presses his lips to Minghao’s jaw and whispers, just for him to hear, as if the world didn’t tilt on its axis with his words, as if they didn’t transcend. 

“I love you,” like it’s nothing; as if Minghao deserved it, as if he weren’t the monster they made out of him. “My Minghao, I love you so much.”

And Minghao rejoices himself in the feeling, veins lighting up with a fire he’d never known he’d be able to taste — because Mingyu loves him, and does Minghao love him too, would he do anything to be able to live with him forever. Maybe at the beach, like Junhui would’ve liked. 

It’s under Mingyu’s soft touches and softer praise that Minghao learns how to be vulnerable again, trust backing up every decision he takes when the taller boy is involved.

It’s under Minghao’s aching hands and desperate lips that Mingyu learns unconditional love, the kind that puts lives at risk. It’s there that he gets used to the feeling of a cold blade against his thigh every time Minghao climbs on top of him, weapon always at hand, just in case, just if.

▫▪▫

Minghao died in Anshan, first — a kid taken out of the streets, a monster in the making —, and Shanghai second, Junhui’s screams piercing through whatever little humanity he’d managed to retrieve. Seoul came third, and then there is Hong Kong, and Odessa and Paris and a hundred more places he recalls but doesn’t remember, and he’s more of a ghost than a person, these days. But it does not matter, because he gets the jobs done and that _is_ what does matter, when Mingyu’s polaroid burns like fire against his chest where it’s tucked into the pocket of his vest.

 _‘The best of us’_ , his people call him in Greece, and Minghao basks in the glory; bottle of wine held tightly in his hand, in a safe location that feels nothing like it. In Minghao’s mind, Mingyu’s hands touch the small of his back; tender, because he cares, and he’d be proud even if Minghao would hate him for it. _“Mine”_ , Minghao would like to whisper, but Mingyu is not here and so he swallows and smiles and leaves the safe house amidst the dark to find his designated carrier to bring him to wherever he’s needed next.

In Odessa, Minghao shoots right through Yoon Jeonghan’s shoulder and Jeonghan’s sharp blade draws thick blood on his thigh, and when Minghao makes it back to the headquarters with a badly patched up wound and thirteen pages of intel already written inside his brain, Jeonghan is there too, and it sets out all of his alarms. His long, blond hair sticks to his forehead where he’s sweating, and there’s a thick bandage around his right shoulder. Minghao wonders if he’s going to have to kill him right here, and then Jeonghan starts spitting intel on the other side of the deal Minghao was sent to investigate and it all makes sense; send two agents on opposite teams, see what happens, survival of the strongest. 

Minghao’s never been weak; Jeonghan is not, either. 

“You two would make a great team together,” one of their superiors says, as if they had a choice, as if their fate was in their control, and it’s settled just like that. 

And Minghao, he doesn’t trust Jeonghan, because he’s a foreigner and he doesn’t take well to having to work with someone else, but it is not his place to question and so he says nothing at all. 

In Moscow they become something akin to friends. After seven months of working together Jeonghan finally explains he was brought up in Russia and then sent to work there for years, and Minghao’s brain scans the thousands of documents he’s got saved inside his head until he pulls out the file that states it to be a correct fact. 

“Am I gonna die?” Jeonghan asks deliriously when Minghao works to extract a bullet from his abdomen in the grimmy bathroom of their designated safe place, as if he cared, as if it mattered. Minghao shakes his head. 

“We’ll never be lucky enough to die like this,” he’ll tell him, and Jeonghan will laugh, a mean cough following the sound. 

“I’d like it to be you, when the day comes,” Jeonghan chokes out, and it tugs somewhere inside Minghao’s rotten chest and makes his eyes soften. 

“We’ll go down together, I’m sure.”

Jeonghan does not die. Minghao fears they’ll be immortal. 

In Busan, Jeonghan’s Korean is impeccable when he tells Minghao he’s got somewhere to be tonight, alone, if he’ll trust him, and when Minghao asks where he says there’s intel to be retrieved on a small club downtown. 

Jeonghan lies, but it’s all right because Minghao does too. 

Mingyu shows up right on time at the address Minghao texted him, and when they press their lips together after eight months apart it feels cathartic, Minghao’s veins lighting up with an electric kind of feeling when Mingyu hauls him up against the door of their hotel room and steals his breath away. 

“Are you hurt?” Mingyu asks, a gentle hand wiping away at Minghao’s cheek where he hadn’t realised he was crying. 

Tears are a sign of weakness, but being with Mingyu; it is the bravest thing Minghao will ever do. 

“Not hurt,” Minghao whispers, eyes lost in Mingyu’s, because he’s real and grounding and he will never need anyone else. “I’ve just missed you so much.”

And Minghao will let Mingyu fuck him, tonight, deep into the mattress, body shaking and loud moans spilling from his lips; and later, when it’s just them pressed against each other, Mingyu’s lips healing over Minghao’s new scars, he will tell him about the dog he adopted and the apartment he’d like to move into, if Minghao were there with him, if they could have it all. 

Minghao wishes they could. Hope sparks inside his chest, and it feels empowering. 

▫▪▫

Mingyu knows everything Minghao can tell, which is not much but still more than Minghao thought he’d ever share, because Minghao knows he’s safe — because there’s love in Mingyu’s eyes, _I’d go to war for you, Minghao, I’ll die for you if I have to_ , and Minghao is too good of a spy to be fooled by false promises, but this. This is real, and he deserves to rejoice in the peace, when the world is a raging storm outside their window, and so he tells him about being a lost kid in a cold city and of seeing precious cathedrals when he was sent to Rome.

Minghao doesn’t tell Mingyu about anything related to his missions, or his knowledge, or the way he works, because the less Mingyu knows, the safer he is, and so he stays quiet. He doesn’t tell him about Junhui, either, because his memory is Minghao’s to keep — his brother and his mentor, the only person who saw past his walls, past his red stained hands, and so he’ll keep him safe inside his chest for as long as he lives.

But Mingyu knows about Yoon Jeonghan, because he is like an extension of Minghao’s self, these days; the only other person he trusts in this world, and keeping him a secret from Mingyu would be too much like killing a part of himself he’d for long believed dead — Jeonghan is a friend, and Minghao’s never had many of those. 

Mingyu always asks about Jeonghan, _is he alright, will you two survive?_. Minghao wishes he could be reborn into someone who wouldn’t make Mingyu worry about whether he’ll be alive by morning, but he didn’t choose this life and he won’t get to live another, and so he allows himself to feel everything when Mingyu’s arms squeeze around his own and lets go of the weight of the world he supports on his shoulders. 

Mingyu lays down on the bed that occupies the center of the bungalow, and Minghao wastes no time in taking his place — right on top of Mingyu’s lap, the throne of a kingdom he’d never believed his to conquer until big hands caressed the skin over his ribs where initials are engraved forever now. And Minghao feels high on the love Mingyu basks him in when he leans down to kiss him, to taste the man he’d kill for, the one he’d die for. 

“Please,” Mingyu whines, when Minghao’s hands work him over his briefs, a damp spot staining the front, “need you, Minghao, please.”

And Minghao takes pride in his self control, for he manages to draw it out for as long as he can — his fingers stretching Mingyu out at a delirious pace, his tongue tasting every crevice of the body shaking underneath his own, and when they’re finally connected in a way that transcends the physical realm, Minghao tells him, voice raw, heart out beating right in between them. 

“I’m so in love with you,” like a claim over the place that’s always been his by right; Mingyu’s heart, his most prized belonging, “I love you, I love you, I’ll never love anyone who’s not you.”

And Mingyu will arch underneath him, big hands gripping the sensitive skin of Minghao’s waist with force enough to break a wall as he bucks up against him, tears falling from his beautiful eyes as he cries out, 

“Yours, yours, I’m yours,” the only truth they know, because Minghao is Mingyu’s just as much as Mingyu is his, “I love you, Minghao, I love you so much.”

Mingyu comes hard across his stomach, the tidal force of a wave breaking havoc in between them, hard muscles trembling and lips spilling the most beautiful of sounds as Minghao empties himself inside him, too. 

And the world could end right now, for all Minghao cares, because there will never be a home safer than this one.

▫▪▫

Paris makes Mingyu glow under bright lights and enormous monuments, endless laughs and impossibly beautiful smiles on his mouth. Minghao does not believe in any deity, but he wishes to find him like this again sometime, somewhere, if they could have a second life, another chance at making things right — no blood on his hands and no weapons under his coat, just in case, just because. 

Bringing Mingyu to Europe unnoticed turned out to be less difficult than Minghao had anticipated. There’d been intel to be had, United States intelligence involved and a task of not getting involved in any way — _just listen, bring back what you can, don’t let yourself be caught_ —, and Minghao sending an invitation for a Louvre reception Mingyu had not been able to resist. There’d been fake passports and documentation to be fulfilled, but Minghao’s been the best at his job for many years now, for he’s loyal and relentless, and so he’s been trusted to deal with his own issues just like that. 

Nobody batted an eye when they made it past the security thresholds of their respective airports, nor when they finally met in Orly, black coats and sunglasses and sweet kisses on the mouth. 

Nobody bats an eye when they walk together into the Louvre museum, hand in hand like the couple they get to be tonight — no apparent greater purpose, _enjoy the night, Mingyu-ya, I’ll keep you safe, don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid_ —, Yoon Jeonghan in tow with his golden hair tied up into a ponytail that should not look as exquisite as it does. 

And Mingyu does enjoy, mouth almost gaping as he watches the paintings, _I love art, Minghao, this reminds me of you_ ; lips pressed to Minghao’s for the whole world to see, because Paris is the city of love and even someone like him deserves to feel it, just for one night, the sweetness of open desire allowed once in a lifetime. 

Jeonghan watches out for them, just in case, but the night is as uneventful as Minghao had expected it to be. There’s intel, there are deals, there are dates and places engraved in his brain now, and Jeonghan lets them leave early because he knows how badly Minghao has missed Mingyu’s skin under his fingertips — there’s something familiar in his eyes, when Minghao bids him goodbye, and a silent kind of understanding that they will never voice. 

Humanity makes them weak; it might as well make them stronger, together like this.

In their hotel room, Minghao watches Mingyu ride him with the moonlight reflecting on his skin, and it’s the closest thing to heaven he’ll ever get to witness. 

“Forever,” Mingyu cries out, sweat dripping down his temple as Minghao pumps his cock, “want you forever, Minghao, please, please.”

Forever is a long time. Minghao promises him, anyways.

▫▪▫

In Hanoi, he and Jeonghan are roughly thrown into a humid basement and tied up to metal chairs that will not budge under their efforts to free themselves. 

_You’re better off dead than caught_ has been their motto for as long as they can remember, and Minghao knows a bait when he sees one, but they bite into it anyways because intel is more precious than any of their lives will ever be. There’s always something to be had.

The interrogation is long and harsh, and two hours into it Minghao finds he does not see with his left eye, face swelling under the harsh treatment of their captors, but his brain is still processing everything they’ve managed to find about this organization. 

Jeonghan is bleeding from his scalp, temple dripping dark red as the brutes leave to retrieve harsher instruments of torture. Still, he manages to dislocate his joints with creaking noises that should no longer make Minghao as nauseous as they do, with small huffs and grunts of pain that are masked by their current state, and he’s freed himself with no one but Minghao taking notice of it.

“I was raised in Russia,” is all he’s got to say, as if it explained everything.

When the agents return and hold pliers to Minghao’s lips, Jeonghan hits one on the head with his chair and has the other two on the floor in an instant. He slits their throats open with his earring, the most capable human Minghao has ever met, and soon they’re both escaping through a window, a 42-feet freefall to the ground none of them is afraid of.

In Fukuoka, Mingyu presses kisses to every single one of Minghao’s bruises before swallowing him down whole, and Minghao’s back arches while strong hands keep his hips pinned down to the mattress thrown on the floor in the middle of the room. 

When they’re done, dried come wiped away from tan skin and lips swollen from making out for a tad too long, Minghao burns down the identities they used to fly themselves here and hands Mingyu a new passport and the keys to the motorbike he stole on his way to this place. 

Minghao puts the helmet on him, makes sure it won’t slip off, and presses one last kiss to the reverse of Mingyu’s hand before he puts on his gloves, all in black like a shadow, _I’ll see you again soon, be safe, please be safe_. He takes a picture of Mingyu before he gets on the vehicle, a polaroid film he’ll swallow down if it ever comes down to that point, something his to keep for when they’re apart.

When the engine roars to a wake and Mingyu drives himself away down a secondary road, the trees swallow him whole and Minghao fears they’ll never see each other again. 

Life is nothing more than this.

▫▪▫

Jeonghan tells Minghao about Lee Seokmin in Osaka, silencer on his gun as they wait for their objectives to walk down their corner, Minghao’s own held tightly in his hand. 

Jeonghan met him in Vladivostok seven years ago, the cold of the Russian Far East unforgiving on the dimly lit streets he’d passed on his way back to his safe house — blood on his hands, blood on his heart. Seokmin had been kneeling down on concrete, fingertips freezing under icy wind and the threat of yet another snow storm, and when Jeonghan had passed by, he’d begged for shelter, _just for tonight, Sir, please, I’ll do anything, I’ll do anything_. 

And Jeonghan didn’t know what happened inside his chest back in that moment, because assets have no feelings, _you’re not in control, obey or you’ll regret_ , but Seokmin’s voice had been followed by a nasty fit of coughs and he’d seen himself reflected on the thin boy trembling in front of him; nowhere to go, life slipping away through the cracks on his skin, and he shouldn’t have done it, but Jeonghan took Seokmin into his arms and carried him back his place.

And it wasn’t love, Jeonghan tells Minghao as the clock ticks closer to their deadline, but Seokmin was young and kind and deserved a chance, and he’d tried to give one to him; away from their world, in which he’d never push anyone again, but a safe chance, money on a bank account for him to use, _I’ll protect you, fear nothing for I’ll have your back_.

Minghao could understand — it was hard to reject humanity for so long. Hearts ache to feel; he too had been in his place.

Jeonghan tells Minghao about Choi Seungcheol in Shenzhen, Junhui’s unfair home, and it only makes it hurt all the worse. 

“He’s protecting Seokmin back in Seoul,” Jeonghan speaks in perfect French, and Minghao feels oceans away from him. “He’ll do us no harm, I know he won’t, I’d kill him otherwise.”

“You’ve betrayed us,” the truth is heavy on Minghao’s tongue, takes away another piece of his badly glued heart — Jeonghan was safe, Jeonghan was home if there could ever be one, but this. This is the moment that changes everything. 

_I’d like it to be you, when the day comes_ , Jeonghan had said. Minghao’s dagger is heavy against his thigh. For all he’s got, he wishes he won’t have to use it tonight.

“I swear, Minghao, he’s protecting me, and you too, because I made him swear nothing would happen to you either, and he’s in love with me,” Jeonghan never sounds anything less than perfectly composed, but there’s a hint of desperation in his voice right now. “I’m helping him, yes, but wouldn’t you do the same for Mingyu? Wouldn’t you do anything within your reach to keep him safe? Working as a double agent is honestly not the worst thing I could do.”

Minghao would, without the bat of an eye, but Korean Intelligence getting involved in his personal desires sounds a little too far fetched for him to ever consider it a possibility. 

“I don’t want to kill you,” Minghao says, chest open and dripping honest one more time. It might be more than Jeonghan deserves. “Please don’t do this to me.”

Jeonghan heaves out a sigh. It sounds like defeat. Minghao feels his head spin.

“I’m gonna leave, Minghao,” he says after what feels like forever. “Seungcheol— he’s going to take me away from all of this. I… I want another chance, another life, I don’t care if it’s short or anything but just. I can’t do this anymore. I thought you would understand.”

 _‘Maybe one day we’ll get to have a life,’_ Junhui used to say, when it was just them. Minghao thinks of a little house on the beach, of dogs and kids — God, let there be kids —, and Mingyu’s hand held in his, fingers maybe clad with rings, each other’s forever. 

Jeonghan’s blond hair shines under the Guangdong sun, and his beautiful eyes are trying to look past Minghao’s vest into the darkness of his heart. 

“I could,” Jeonghan says, then, and there’s a kind of spark in his eye Minghao wishes he could’ve gotten to witness more often, “I could tell Seungcheol to protect you, too. You could leave with me, go be with Mingyu, we could—”

Minghao thinks of different lives and second chances, of protecting a loved one and being loved without the threat of death hanging over your head every day you wake up, and the weight of the world is suddenly too heavy for him to carry on his shoulders any longer. 

“No,” Minghao cuts him off, sharp as a blade, harsh as a bullet, “I can’t go with you, I can’t leave. Do you think we’d make it past the first week on the run? You and I, Yoon Jeonghan, we’re too valious for them. They would hunt us down until we turn to ash,” Jeonghan’s lips are tugged down into a frown, but Minghao won’t be stopped now. “I… they will send me after you, if you go. I know they will — I know you better than anyone. I could protect you.”

They stay silent for a while, after that, and the mics they placed inside their target building record all the information they need without them paying it any mind.

“Okay,” Jeonghan mumbles after a while, and it too sounds like defeat.

“Okay,” Minghao replies, at last. Jeonghan deserves what he’ll never get to have. “I’ll help you, then.”

Jeonghan grimaces but doesn’t complain. _I wish it could be me running away_ , Minghao doesn’t say, but Jeonghan hears all the same.

▫▪▫

The last time Minghao sees Yoon Jeonghan, they’re hunched up in the grimy bathroom of a bus station in Manila. 

Jeonghan is chopping away his luscious blond locks, now dyed jet black; beauty marks covered up with industrial concealer, wounds and bruises hidden by baggy clothes and loose bandages, and Minghao cannot bring himself to look away because it might as well be the last time they get to see each other like this.

Jeonghan has a secure carrier to Goheung, and then he is Choi Seungcheol’s — he’ll be waiting for him there, with Lee Seokmin and the key to the new life he so badly craves. He trusts Seungcheol with his life, for he’s literally giving himself away to him, giving up on everything he’s ever known. 

Minghao does not believe in any deity, but he prays that they all will be okay.

“Take care of yourself,” Minghao says, his very own kind of farewell. Jeonghan might as well have been his only friend, even though Minghao has never been allowed any of those. Perhaps Junhui, once, to whom he could never say goodbye.

He doesn’t tell Jeonghan that he’ll miss him, because you can’t miss someone when your whole life consists of pure survival and secrets and death. Still, Jeonghan looks at him as if he could see past Minghao’s dark soul, and his smile says he hopes for them to meet again, some day, somewhere, just like right now. 

Impossibles are the hopes of the brave.

“Don’t let them take yourself away from you,” is the only thing Jeonghan says before climbing on a motorbike, and then he’s starting the engine and driving himself away into the horizon, yet another part of Minghao’s life slipping away from his fingertips.

Minghao holds the older’s phone in his hand as he watches him go, and after eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds standing on the same spot, he leaves to burn it down to ashes alongside seven fake passports and his own device, waiting for his own transport to the island in which he’s going to be meeting Mingyu, this time.

▫▪▫

Minghao’s body is still trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm when the world comes crashing down.

 _‘Maybe one day we’ll get to have a life,’_ Junhui used to say, and Minghao would think of a house on the beach and of dogs and kids and Mingyu’s hand in his. 

He thinks of that same house now, too, when the cold barrel of Mingyu’s gun is pressed up to his temple. What is left for him there, in the wake of the Apocalypse?

“Don’t move,” Mingyu says, and his voice cracks. “Please, don’t move. Don’t make me do it.”

Mingyu’s hands tremble as they hold the weapon to Minghao’s head, like the weight is impossible for him to stand, like it hurts. Minghao wonders if it really does — if he ever cared, if it was just the impeccable act of an agent much better than himself.

Minghao wouldn’t even have to think of which muscles to move to grab the dagger fastened around his thigh and slit Mingyu’s throat with it, but he feels paralyzed with shock in a way that’s never happened before. _You’re better off dead than caught_ , and he’s never been more caught up than he is in Mingyu’s arms, a safe house compromised from the start.

Minghao wonders how he could’ve been so blind, not to see the connection — Mingyu showing up to the gallery reception in Seoul uninvited, no traces of him on the system, no other reason to his existence than to make Minghao weaker and weaker with every kiss, with every touch. He thinks of Paris, of taking him with them to a _mission_ like there would be nothing to lose. He thinks of Hong Kong, of a man unafraid to love a monster like him, and he feels sick with how much of a fool he’s made of himself. 

Kim Mingyu is not who Xu Minghao thought him to be, and the realisation is enough to shut off his brain and let himself be pressed against the mattress by a body much stronger than his own, the silencer of Mingyu’s gun warming up against his forehead as he straddles his waist one more time, the kiss of traitorous Judas on Last Supper night. 

Minghao does not believe in any deity, but he hopes for hell to burn hot for himself — _destroy me, don’t even leave ashes to mourn, life was nothing more than you_.

“Who are you,” Minghao asks, eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling of the bungalow, voice cold and distant. The wound on his thigh screams in pain again and he hopes for it to kill him before Mingyu does. 

“I’m so sorry,” Mingyu’s voice is shaky as he speaks, as if he were telling the truth, as if he could fix it all. “I swear to God, Minghao, I swear I didn’t mean for it to be like this. I love you so much, I never lied about that. It was never meant to happen.”

“Who are you,” he repeats, because he won't listen — listening would only make things worse, at the end of the world. 

“There’s no one in the world who knows me better than you,” Mingyu mumbles, and when Minghao looks at him, there are tears running down his face. Minghao’s heart gives a painful tug inside his chest, for he wants to believe him more than he wants anything else, right now. _Impossibles are the hopes of the brave._ “I’m Kim Mingyu, working for Korean Intelligence. I’m supposed to hand you in to them, tonight.”

“Why,” Minghao asks, then, and his eyes are sharp like daggers when they look into Mingyu’s, “why did you take so long. You could’ve taken me with you in Seoul, in Hong Kong, anywhere.”

Mingyu looks down and lets his tears drop on Minghao’s bare abdomen. They’re cold against his skin, and he wants to wipe them away as much as he wants Mingyu to kill him before things become uglier.

“I told them I didn’t catch you,” he says, lisp prominent now that he’s nervous, and Minghao’s breath catches in his throat. “I said you ran away in Seoul, and that I never got to see you again until now.”

“That wasn’t a very smart move,” Minghao mumbles, because he’s got nothing to lose now that he’s had his life taken away from him. “You should kill me.”

“I can’t kill you,” Mingyu sounds exasperated, and he shakes his head as he talks. “I’m in love with you, Minghao. I’ve been, fuck, I’ve been protecting you all this time, you know? With Seungcheol and Jeonghan and, God, I’ve risked everything for you. Everything.”

The world stops turning as Mingyu speaks. Distantly, Minghao believes himself in a dream — watching the scene unfold from the outside, not inside his body but far, far away.

“Jeonghan?” he’s almost afraid to ask, eyes wide. “What are you talking about?”

“He was one of ours from the start, Hao,” Mingyu sighs, and his face looks tired. “It wasn’t easy to get him in there with you, you know? But he’s, he’s too great of an agent. He was never on your side, just _by_ you. I was hoping you’d agree to run away with him, when he left.”

Minghao’s head is spinning and he feels dizzy with the motion, for he no longer can tell lie away from fact. Mingyu moves the gun away from his face and lets it fall against the mattress, as if Minghao was no longer a threat. He probably was never one. 

“Hao,” Mingyu says, and he reaches down to hold Minghao’s hand in between his own. Minghao feels too much like a lifeless doll to pull away, and he doesn’t want to, for Mingyu will still be Mingyu no matter how many lifetimes pass. “Let me keep you safe. I- I can make it look like you’re dead, will tell them you were about to kill me and that I had to kill you instead, and they’ll never know. They’ll never know, and then we. We could have a life, you could have a chance, and-”

It all tastes sweet like candy on the back of Minghao’s tongue — too good to be true, and so he stops listening because he knows better than to trust a foreign agent. 

But still, there’s a little beacon of hope inside his marred heart, begging him to please give in, take a shot, one last time. What is left there for him to lose, anyways?

“Wen Junhui’s been living like that for years now,” Minghao’s ears catch Mingyu say, “I think you two would get along.”

Minghao’s heart stops beating inside his chest long enough for him to gasp for breath, pushing Mingyu away with all his strength so he can throw himself off the bed into the ground, bones aching as they take the full force of the fall.

“What,” his eyes are wild as he speaks, voice desperate, “what the fuck are you talking about.” Because Mingyu should know nothing about Junhui because Minghao’s kept him a secret for enough years that everyone should’ve forgotten about him by now.

Mingyu doesn’t reach for the gun, but he does reach for Minghao, an amicable hand and kind eyes full of promises that sound much closer now than they did ten minutes ago. 

“Please trust me,” he says, and his voice is tender in Minghao’s ears. “I’d go to war for you, Minghao, I’ll die for you if I have to. Minghao-ya, I’ll keep you safe, don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid.”

Minghao’s initials are still engraved on his thigh; Mingyu’s on his own ribs.

There is no greater fate; there’s no greater God.

**Author's Note:**

> additional warning: (temporary) minor character death
> 
> thank you so much for reading! please leave kudos to and/or comment if you enjoyed this story, and you can find me on [twt](https://twitter.com/hanniecuqui) and [cc](https://curiouscat.me/peekatom) <3


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